


Forensic Match Made in Heaven

by orphan_account



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Spock is my insecure bby, all my stories have happy endings tbh, fingerprints are the same AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:53:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4356962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moment he scans in his thumb in the return terminal to San Francisco, Earth, Spock is charged with public displays of indecency, an offense he did not commit. In a universe where only two people can ever have the same fingerprint at once, Spock is knows two things: </p><p>1) His soulmate must exist after all.</p><p>2) His soulmate is a complete idiot.</p><p>Things Spock does not know: </p><p>1) His soulmate is that cadet who is late every Thursday.</p><p> </p><p>Or a soulmates-have-the-same-fingerprints AU in the Academy Era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jim hated Valentine’s day.

It wasn’t the kind of judgemental, capuchino carrying disdain some people had of it either. It was more of an all consuming, despair driven hatred that he would rather not dwell on. 

It was the reason why he was sitting in a bar while most people were still eating breakfast, doing shots against the first heartbroken bastard he could find, some guy whose mate had died a year before he’d finally gotten up the nerve to submit a match request.

He really couldn’t remember what he did after getting kicked out of the bar, but that was okay. There were eyewitness accounts to help him fill in the blanks.

Of course, the two of them had run in separate directions and that had been that. It had been months since the incident and Jim knew the guy had been charged already, fingerprints on the shot glasses. He’d left prints too, but that didn’t matter. His fingerprints hadn’t been in the database since he turned eighteen and decided he was leaving home and never looking back.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, to look up his mate. Since he was leaving this shitty family, he might as well go look for the love of his life.

Except they didn’t exist. 

The government had sent back the almost unheard of No-Match file. He should have known. The universe was a smart lady; she’d probably taken one look at his mess of a life and decided she wasn’t going to force some poor schmuck to deal with him. Better just let him waste away on his own. 

As far as Jim was concerned, soul mate matching had been the only real positive of having his prints on some enormous planetary database. The majority of the world shared that sentiment, but of course, the rest of the world had a mate. A gravestone at best sometimes, but still.

It hadn’t taken much to alter the records. Starfleet’s data had been slightly harder to change once he’d enrolled, but still possible. There was any need for the world to know his prints anymore. It had been a good move; Jim was almost broke. He didn’t need the fine that would come with getting arrested for sidewalk blowjobs, or the Starfleet repercussions. 

 

 

Spock found it mildly alarming that the first emotion he experienced upon hearing his charges was a swell of happiness so powerful he almost smiled at the officer, who was already understandably unimpressed.

“It says here you ‘Publically engaged in oral intercourse with another individual outside the bar _Happy Juice_ at the time of―” He eyed Spock incredulously. “―7:45 am, on a Sunday, stardate 2257.45.”

“I deny all charges and would like to speak with my lawyer.” Spock replied smoothly. Starfleet was legally required to offer him one of their counselors, though Spock expected to support the brunt of his defense on his own. The prosecution’s evidence was solid; he had the only possible matching fingerprint to one of the culprits whose glasses had been left at the bar.

It could never have been him.

“Look,” The officer was looking less judgemental and more pitying, a familiar expression on humans who had read his file. “Just admit to the crime. You’ll get a fine, at worst. It’s a cut and dry case―nobody’s going to come down hard on some―” _insodalis_ ”― guy getting drunk on Valentine’s day.” He sighed. “I wouldn’t have done it the way you’re doing it, but I get it.”

There were many ways Spock wanted to reply to the officer. Had he been human he may have had a great amount of difficulty refraining from saying anything other than a stubborn, “I would like to see my counselor.”

Spock was released half an hour later with a court hearing and very little patience, heading straight to the bathroom to find medication for his dull headache. He found himself leaning over the sink to stare illogically at his reflection, tracing the black lines of his mark with his eyes where they curled up the sides of his neck from below his collar. Spock usually avoided looking too closely at his reflection just because of those marks; if he stared long enough, he could almost project his memories from that day into the mirror in front of him.

He had gotten his marks the almost a week after graduating University on Vulcan, the twisting vines, not unlike the roots of a tree, creeping up his neck as he brushed that morning.

He had been understandable excited. The excitement lasted for approximately three minutes before he realized something was wrong.

The bright blue had faded into his normal skin tone as he watched, leaving behind only the black outlines.

He was an unfated. An insoladis, without a soul mate in the world. He would be alone, for his entire life. 

His father had been unsurprised with his rare presentation as an insoladis; Spock’s unorthodox genetic scheme must have made him unfit for a vulcan or human mate. His mother had been more positive, pointing out that Spock had inherited humanoid hands with valid fingerprints, but amongst the data banks of the world his prints matched no human either. 

Spock had grown up being the outcast, an oddity that did not belong completely in either human or Vulcan worlds. In San Francisco he was a robotic, unfeeling professor who was universally disliked for his clinical lectures and apparently difficult tests. On Vulcan he was an overly emotional creature, lacking the proper mental controls. Universally, he could be recognized as an insoladis. Any human with passing Vulcan knowledge would know the significance of his empty markings. Even if they did not, it was clearly stated on his public Starfleet file.

And yet… it was impossible that he could have committed that crime. He did not drink alcohol very often, and did not celebrate Valentine’s day. He would have been at the Academy grading papers over the weekend, not visiting bars in the early morning to drink himself into a sorrowful stupor, as the officer seemed to be implying.

His fingerprints had been on the cup. There had only been two people drinking at the bar so early in the morning, and his fingerprints had been there. Initially nonexistent in the Earth’s database, but a perfect match to his once he had returned to the planet using a commercial transport line rather than Starfleet’s. It had seemed like the logical thing to do at the time; he’d be able to arrive several days ahead of time, and avoid a shipful of cadets celebrating the liberation that was spring break.

Spock could arrive at only two logical explanations; the police’s records had been hacked to frame him of this crime, or that somewhere, there was a human living out of Earth’s database records.

It should have been impossible. All humans were fingerprinted and documented at birth, even in the most rural reaches of the planet. The program could account for almost every single Earth resident, down to the individual numbers. It made human soul mate pairing an extremely easy task; all humans could simply file a request for the database’s match on their fingerprints. It would almost always find one, from the deceased or the living.

Spock did not envy those who received the news that their soul mate had died before they’d known. It was better to be an insoladis, to know that there simply was never a chance, rather than to be haunted by what could have been.

Except his fingerprints were on that cup, and yet they were not his. Except Spock was slowly starting to believe that he had been arrested for his soul mate’s crime.

He knew the dangers of hope. Emotions in general had a tendency to overwhelm him, the Vulcan depth coupled with human control making for a sometimes dangerous balance of mental state.

Hope was unlike anger, or happiness, or fear. It did not present itself to Spock in bursts of intensity, over in a few moments. It crept into his mind and expanded slowly, always present, but never completely overwhelming. 

He had lived life on the assumption that he was alone in the universe. Spock was entirely aware of how terribly hard he could fall in terms of mental health if this hope abandoned him. Perhaps it would be illogical to pursue this incident, to look for a soulmate that could not exist. 

_Perhaps you are too afraid._ The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like his mother’s. 

Spock decided, in the end, that it was more illogical to run away from fear. He was already out the door, intent on returning to the station, before he realized that if this turned out to be real his soulmate could very well be a drunken exhibitionist.

 

 

Jim stumbled into his advanced phonology class and immediately cursed under his breath. There wasn’t friendly blonde standing at the base of the lecture hall this time; Professor Spock was back from wherever he had gone to for two glorious weeks, and ready to rip Jim a new one.

“Late again, Mr. Kirk?” His voice was as monotone as always, with the only hint of emotion present hinting at how unimpressed he was. 

Jim glared at him as he took a seat, the movement making his head pound. “Sorry Mr. Droid.”

The light giggles around the lecture hall died as Professor Spock’s voice raised just a fraction. His tone was still irritatingly level. “My office, after this block, Mr. Kirk. Please refrain from being late.”

Jim sank down into his chair and groaned.

 

Sometimes Jim felt bad about giving Professor Spock so much shit. He knew the guy was an insoladis, just like Jim, so he probably should have sympathized with him a bit more. But being mateless was no excuse to be a cold hearted ass, which was the vibe Jim was feeling as he listened to Mr. Spock’s steady stream of commentary on his behavior, work ethic, future in Starfleet… He tuned out after a while. The annoying thing was that Mr. Spock was only a year older than him, and yet years above him in ranks, and apparently grammar standards. 

He also wasn’t bad to look at. And god was it hard for Jim to dislike good looking people.

Jim shut down those thoughts when they popped up; it was useless to think like that. He almost wished he were from another species, one of the ones that didn’t have this godforsaken soul mate business. Then at least he could entertain ideas of sappy romantic happiness that still hung around his mind like useless, sentimental clutter in a house.

“Are you listening?”

Jim jerked and blinked at his professor, his head really not appreciating the movement. “Yes, sir.” he replied, if only to avoid nodding. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Mr. Spock very obviously knew he hadn’t absorbed a word he’d said, but then his PADD beeped. He looked down at it before leveling Jim with one of those serious expressions that made him feel like his thoughts were being X-rayed. Vulcans couldn’t do that, could they? 

“I have business to attend to. I will see you next Thursday.”

Kirk nodded, skirting to the door eagerly. “Won’t be late.” he promised.

That was a lie.

 

 

 

Spock quickly packed up his papers and left not a minute after he’d excused James Kirk. He could dwell on problematic students later; right now he was meeting someone at the Happy Juice bar.

The Happy Juice bar was the complete opposite of any establishment Spock would ever visit. It played loud, thumping music that gave the impression of excitement even as only a few customers sat inside. The outside was painted in bright colors, perhaps to make up for the fact that the inside was ridiculously dim, highlighting the bar like a glowing island in the midst of an empty dance floor.

It probably wouldn’t help his hearing to be visiting the very bar where the incriminating evidence had been found, meeting the man who had been his supposed accomplice, at around the same time that the event had occurred. Not the most logical thing he could have done, in any event.

Spock hadn’t been thinking straight, which was an alarming revelation. The moment he’d contacted the man arrested for being one half of the public indecency case he had been so  
/ eager to meet that he had agreed to the first thing the man had suggested.

His alleged partner in public indecency was slumped over a drink, obviously in need of some major psychiatric aid. Spock felt a small pang of sympathy for the man; his file had listed his mate as deceased. It must have been difficult, for a person only in their early twenties.

“Hello.” he greeted, sitting down. He asked for iced tea from a bemused bartender. “Are you Samuel Davis?” 

The man looked up in surprise, blinking. He must have already been slightly inebriated. “Yeah,” he replied. He gave Spock a once over, no doubt noticing his Starfleet uniform. “So what did you say you wanted again?”

“I wanted to ask you about your, ah…” Spock winced, not knowing how to word it. “About the events on Valentine’s day? They have not located the second person and I’d like to identify who they are.” He paused, hoping Samuel Davis was open minded. “I am Vulcan, so if it would be alright with you I’d like to establish a mental link so as to find a visual of the person.”

Samuel Davis lifted an eyebrow and finished the rest of his drink. Under regular circumstances Spock might have felt guilty for coercing someone into a mind meld while inebriated, but he couldn’t imagine any other way. 

“So, you want to, like…” he gestured with his fingers in a sloppy replication of a mind meld touch. “To identify the guy?”

Spock nodded. He really should not have agreed to meeting at a bar. “I’d like that. And a name, if you have it.”

“Name’s Jim,” Samuel replied, his expression turning slightly sour. “Don’t know the last name; I met ‘m online somewhere. You’re welcome to poke around in there―” He gestured vaguely at his head. “―but the police already got a telepath to come in and do that. Couldn’t get a clear visual.” 

“I’ll try anyways.” Spock said, lifting his hand. 

Merging with Samuel’s mind took effort; his own consciousness was unwilling, more interested in self preservation. The man’s mind was a desolate place, devoid of happiness and hope. It was a lonely place. Spock knew the feeling.

His memories of that day were indeed blurry and in some parts nonexistent. Everything that had occurred outside the bar was only an uncomfortable memory of pleasure while the events in the bar were shadowed by alcohol and the dim lights. The face of whoever he’d been drinking with was covered in shadow, though his hearing was unimpeded. _”God, I hate this holiday”_ The voice was clear in his memory. 

Spock severed the link so suddenly he himself was disoriented as he blinked in the darkness of the bar. Samuel Davis was rubbing his forehead, already drunkenly complaining to the bartender about a massive headache.

He could feel the panic mounting in his chest. The pounding music in the bar only made it worse, made it impossible to concentrate, to gain control. He knew that voice, he _knew that voice._ James Tiberius Kirk. His page blinked onto the screen of Starfleet’s public files. Spock’s eyes immediately focused on the fifth line down.

_Mate Status: Confirmed Null Match_

Spock’s breath caught in his throat, temporarily forgetting about the pain in his head as he stared at the little letters on the screen as if they spelled out the anomalies of the universe. In a way they did.

There was hope―no, there was possibility. James Kirk’s status would have been confirmed using Earth’s thorough database of fingerprints, but they would have been missing Spock’s set. Still, there was a large discrepancy in his logic.

The fingerprints present in Kirk’s records couldn’t have matched Spock’s since Spock had checked well into his university years, and Kirk was only a year his junior. He scrolled down just to check, illogically, what he already knew. Kirk’s fingerprints were not a match, they were…

Spock blinked at the screen, not understanding what he was seeing. Hope swelled in his chest even as he pressed it down, suppressing it with difficulty. Kirk’s fingerprints were not on file. A blank space was present where a low resolution set of his prints should have been displayed.

Kirk must have removed them himself at some point; Spock knew he was more than capable of such things. His intelligence was extremely high for a humans, even advanced for Vulcan standards. Everything else left something to be desired.

 _That isn’t entirely true,_ Spock’s mind argued, unhelpfully summoning an image of his student, with his tousled hair and ridiculously blue eyes, a confident grin never far from his expression. So he was good looking. Spock could recognize that; it would be illogical to lie to himself about that aspect of the cadet.

He tried to imagine… intimacy with James T. Kirk. The idea made his face flush more than it already was, made him mind grasp for any other train of thought. It was an impossible notion, and unethical to boot. A teacher with a student, a Vulcan with a human… Spock knew his personality was polar opposite to James Kirk’s. It was unfathomable. 

But it was fated, wasn’t it?

 _You don’t know that._ Spock had yet to confirm anything; perhaps the computer had misread his prints. Until he acquired a set of James Kirk’s prints, nothing was certain.

Certain or not, Spock knew what he had to do. He washed his face of emotion as the officer looked over his signature and accepted the fine payment. He kept the embarrassment, the irritation, subdued. It faded out by the time he was halfway to the Academy, replaced by a terrible apprehension that he’d run into James Kirk on campus somehow, and the mild relief that it was a Friday.

It was ironic; his colleagues and students were similarly relieved by the day of the week, though their reasons could not be more different. Spock was usually indifferent to the day, his workload was consistent throughout the week. Now he knew he would he counting down the days until Thursday arrived, dreading the two hour long block as much as he would be anticipating it.

 

Jim, unsurprisingly, walked into class almost fifteen minutes late on Thursday, interrupting Mr. Spock’s thrilling explanation of Romulan versus Vulcan intonation. He wasn’t even hungover this time, though it probably would have been better that way. He had spent those fifteen minutes getting blown off by Uhura, again, whose unconfirmed unmatched status made her somehow more untouchable than mated cadets.

Usually rejection was something he could just brush off without it dampening his mood too much. It wasn’t as if it happened often―Bones said it was the eyes, but Jim had more faith in his ass―and when it did there were no hard feelings. But it was a Thursday morning, right before his least favorite class of the week, and a weekend away from exam seasons, so yes, Jim was feeling off.

Unlike Bones, who got grouchy, and Sulu, who got depressed, Jim’s frustration left him in the form of sass. Too much sass.

He’d said two lines to Professor Spock―something about Vulcans and robots and Phonology’s ass―before he knew he was fucked. He might as well have thrown away his simulation scores on test day; Mr. Spock was going to be his proctor.

“Please sit down, Mr. Kirk.” Mr. Spock sounded slightly worn, which was outright exhaustion by his emotional standards. He turned back to the hologram and Jim blinked at his back, sitting down as an afterthought. The rest of the class was a murmuring mass. 

That was it? No office call, no suspension? ‘Settle down, Jim’? He looked closely at his Professor―perhaps this was a Vulcan substitute who just looked like Mr. Spock from far away―but no, it was really him. 

He looked different than all the other times he’d been teaching; Jim couldn’t exactly pinpoint it. Tired, maybe the shadow of bruises under his eyes. And his ears were tinged green.

The color would rush down to his cheeks every time Jim answered a question, he realized after he’d done it three times. His voice would change imperceptibly, shifting from the emotionless replies he usually dealt out to something a little more human.

 _Fuck._ Jim thought, eyeing the clock. The second class ended he was sure Mr. Spock would pounce.

Except he didn’t. In fact, he dismissed the class two minutes early and rushed out the door before any of his students could leave.

“Damn,” Gaila whistled, sidling up next to him with a shoulder rub that would have been suggestive coming from anyone else. For her, it was downright conservative. “You dodged a bullet today. Wonder what’s up with him?”

“Probably short circuited somewhere.” Jim mumbled, the long standing joke tasting oddly unpleasant on his tongue. “You think there’s actually something wrong?”

Gaila shrugged. “I can’t ever tell, with Vulcans. No body language to base things off of, you know? It’s kinda―Oh, wait up!” She waved down someone walking ahead of them and rushed off without another word. Jim watched in disbelief as she linked arms with Uhuru, the pair of them sauntering off towards the mess hall together.

“Well fuck me.” he breathed.

“No thank you.” Bones gave him a light shove to the arm, his standard greeting. “What’s wrong with you?”

Jim eyed his medic bag suspiciously, taking a sidestep away just in case Bones was talking about his literal health. “Fine,” he replied, still wary. Bones rolled his eyes.

“I will never understand people’s fear of hyposprays.They’re a―”

Jim cut in. “Medical miracle, I know Bones.” He’d heard the god’s-gift-to-sickbay speech far too many times. “And I’m just a little on edge, I guess. Exams and all.”

“Don’t remind me.” Bones grumbled. “Just be grateful you don’t have to dissect tribbles for an hour.”

Jim scoffed. “At least you know what’s going on in your simulations. The command line sims fuck with your mind. No one even knows which General Order’s gonna be tested on Monday.” He hoped it was something easy, like Order 9, or too vague to fail, like Order 5. Just none of that no-way-out bullshit that they pulled on sims like the Kobayashi Maru.

 

He should have known. He really should have.

The simulation had started out ambiguous and stayed that way; Jim must have spent an hour alone just sending people off on miscellaneous scouting journeys to observational planets. His proctor for the simulation―of course it had to be Mr. Spock―was also apart of his simulated crew. Jim had given him a dirt sampling task three times before shit started going down.

Even then, in the panic, it didn’t become clear what General Order they were trying to test. It didn’t even register to him as he spoke to the simulation of Professor Spock on the bridge while eyeing his biometrics on the screen, watching his blood pressure plummet as his First Officer bled out in the middle of a forest on some useless, primitive island. 

Jim listened to his gut far too often. He listened even closely to his heart. And both, at the moment, were cheering him on as his little carrier vessel sped over the planet’s forests in plain sight of the natives, picking up Mr. Spock with little difficulty and returning to the sickbay.

It came to him as his screen blinked in failure and he woke up in the real world; General Order number fucking One: never expose yourself to a developing civilization, no matter how many people die.

It was Jim’s least favorite order and coincidentally the Prime Directive. He was an idiot.

The real Professor Spock entered his simulation room as Jim was sitting up. He didn’t know what to expect from his professor; disappointment, maybe, or an ‘I told you so’. He didn’t expect, well, _this,_ whatever this was. Mr. Spock looked at him with a purposely blank expression. 

“You have failed the simulation in it’s entirety.”

“Oh, really?” Jim was tired too tired to argue. “Didn’t notice.”

Mr. Spock’s expression remained impassive. “I have spoken to my colleagues and we have agreed to allow you a retest during the next simulation tomorrow, due to your promising results in class. It should not be a difficult retest, now that it is clear what you should have done?”

Jim nodded, the movement rigid with dishonesty. Starfleet was going to piss itself if he ever became a Captain; he wasn’t ever going to value some planet’s destiny over the lives of one of his crew.

Nevertheless, when the time came he stayed in the chair and watched Commander Spock’s biometrics on the screen, deciding that he really, _really_ hated sims. They were too damn real; the Spock in his headset sounded all too alive, pained breaths genuine. It was to fuck with his head; he knew that. He also knew that none of this was real. That didn’t stop the terrible pounding in his chest as Spock’s voice petered out in his headset, didn’t stop the horrible squeeze in his heart as the biometrics flatlined. 

Maybe Bones had been onto something. He wasn’t acting like himself. 

Jim stumbled out of the Academy doors and took and gulp of fresh air that did absolutely nothing to calm whatever goddamn emotions had been set off by the sim. It had been all he could do to hold it together as Professor Spock―very real, and alive―congratulated him on a successful score. It seemed wrong, it all seemed wrong. _You’re congratulating me on killing you,_ he’d wanted to say. _How is that okay?_

He met Bones at the bar like they’d arranged earlier that morning and felt like he’d never been more happy to see alcohol in his life. The bar was full of similar souls; half of Starfleet’s cadet population must have been here, drowning their exam sorrows in liquid courage. He could practically feel the regret they’d all have come first block tomorrow.

Bones raised an eyebrow as Jim downed a shot before he had even sat down, slumping over the bar stool like a rag doll.

“Rough sim?” he asked, sounding far too cheerful. Jim guessed the tribble marathon hadn’t been so bad. “What order’d they test?”

“Number One.” Kirk buried his face in his hands. “God, I hate the prime directive.”

Bones winced in sympathy; as a medic he was probably even less eager to let crew members die than Jim was. “Who’d you leave behind?”

Jim laughed without humor, the whisky burning down his throat. “Professor Spock. They stuck him in the simulation, can you believe that Bones?” He was sounding a bit more outraged than he would have liked. 

Bones shrugged. “I guess it makes sense to put in someone you know. A lot more people would pass if they just let some random computer-generated crew member die.”

“I guess.” It was an interesting thought. Jim wondered if he would have passed that first time, if Spock hadn’t been the one down there. Yes, Jim realized, mildly disconcerted. I would have passed.

Rather than linger on thoughts like those, Jim directed his thoughts to his drink and focused until he couldn’t focus on anything anymore.

 

Spock typed in the last of his student’s results and couldn’t help himself from pausing over James Kirk’s file, at the summaries of his first and second simulations, and the notes his colleagues had left behind. 

He should not be reading into James Kirk’s behavior in the simulation. It was illogical; the cadet would have acted the same had his persona been replaced by any other random persona. Still, it was… heartening. 

And misleading. This soulmate business was starting to affect his mental state, and perhaps next his work ethic. And it was all still unconfirmed.

An opportunity to procure James Kirk’s fingerprints presented itself much sooner than Spock would have expected. It came in the form of a body falling into him as he opened the door to his office, ready to leave. James Kirk blinked up at him from where his head rested on his shoulder as Spock caught him automatically, obviously inebriated.

“Hey there, _professor.”_ he slurred, unsteadily standing on his own two feet. Spock closed the door hastily, glad that his floor was always relatively deserted. “Fancy seeing you alive.”

Alive? “Mr. Kirk, if you would please―”

“Jim.”

“ _Excuse me?”_

“Call me Jim.” His voice was remarkably serious for one as drunk as himself. 

“ _Jim,_ ” Spock complied, exasperated. “Please explain to me what you are doing here?”

The cadet gave Spock a grin that absolutely did not affect him at all. “Just dropping by to say hi.”

“You are―” Spock stopped. He was completely unprepared to deal with a situation like this; his mind, for once, blanking on what to possibly make of it. And then he felt a pressure against his abdomen, the feeling of Jim's fingers curling into his uniform. He looked down, partially to just avoid Jim’s eyes that bore straight at him, and knew this was a chance he might not get again. 

He took a step back towards his desk and was surprised to find that the younger man followed him, hand clinging to shirt as if Spock were supporting his entire body. In a way, he probably was. Jim looked only moments away from passing out on the nearest half-Vulcan he could find.

Jim babbled nonsense as Spock gently pressed his fingers into the screen of his PADD, not seeming to notice the device collecting his fingerprints. “Spock,” he said, voice insistent. It was odd to hear his name spoken without the prefix of ‘professor’ or ‘Mr.’Spock. “Spock, you’ve got to help me.”

His PADD blinked, signalling its completion of the finger scan. “With what do you need aid?” Spock asked, unable to help being concerned. 

“I’m... going crazy.” Jim informed him. He was leaning forward heavily now, his eyes slowly blinking in the signs of someone about to fall asleep for a very long time. “You’re driving me crazy.”

Spock blinked at him, unable to formulate a response. It was for the best anyways, since Jim dropped off not a moment later, his body nearly collapsing before Spock caught him. For a few minutes Spock sat immobile, the cadet’s head lolling against his shoulder, his body cool to the touch and breath smelling of cheap alcohol. He wanted to tell himself that it was simply because he needed time to formulate a course of action, but Spock knew what he should do. He also knew that he was feeling the most peculiar, complete sense of happiness just by sitting on his office floor, James Kirk nearly curled in his lap.

Spock sighed and reached over to where his communications unit had fallen. “Dr. McCoy.”

“Professor Spock? And I’m… uh, I’m not a doctor yet.” 

Leonard McCoy’s voice sounded slightly slow, indicating that he had also been drinking, but not nearly as heavily as Jim. “If you can, please report to my office as soon as possible. I have a… friend of yours here with me. He may have alcohol poisoning.”

“It’s Jim isn’t it?” Spock heard a slew of poorly masked swears. “Damn kid.” McCoy finally muttered, his voice close to his unit again. “Don’t worry, I made sure he didn’t have enough to be toxic but he’s kinda a lightweight―I’ll be there in five. Is he…?”

“Unconscious.” Spock replied. He pressed two fingers to the pulse point on Jim’s neck and ignored the odd palpitations his heart underwent as he counted the beats. “Pulse is relatively normal.”

“Alright then. Sorry about this.” The comm unit clicked, signifying the end of the call.

Spock didn’t move them from the ground, because he did not want to disturb the other man (not because he was enjoying himself). Jim had shifted during his conversation with Dr. McCoy, his face angled just enough to catch the light that filtered through his small office window in an otherwise dark room. Spock found that he could barely recognize his student as he slept; his expression was serene and almost serious, completely different than his usually exuberant persona. His eyelashes, resting on flushed cheeks, were equally disconcerting. Spock could not remember any moment where he hadn’t looked at the cadet and seen those extraordinarily bright blue eyes staring back at him.

His highly inappropriate reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door, which spurred Spock to jump up and consequently drop Jim on the floor, where his limbs splayed as if he had fallen there. Spock winced but still walked forward to answer the door, glad at least that Jim’s best friend would not see them on the ground and make assumptions.

Dr. McCoy spotted his friend lying on the floor and rolled his eyes. 

“Sorry about this; he’s been acting weird lately and I guess exam season was the last straw. That sim he did really―” McCoy abruptly stopped, as if noticing he was saying too much. “I mean, sorry about this professor.”

“It is fine.” Spock replied. He was reluctant to admit to himself just how incredibly fine this visit was. “Thank you for coming to retrieve him.”

The moment the door closed Spock near ran to the spot where his PADD lay on the floor, typing furiously and then waiting, his heart pounding uncomfortably, as the device determined a match for the scanned prints. The PADD gave a small chirp to announce its completion of the task and Spock found it illogically hard to force himself to look at the screen.

A match.

Spock felt the breath leave him, relief flowing over his entire body as he slumped against the wall, allowing himself this momentary loss of composure in the privacy of his own office. They’re fingerprints had been a match. He had a soulmate.

His emotional suppression was almost completely gone at the moment, though the happiness lasted for only moments until his mind started thinking again, the questions and anxiety eating away at his good mood until he was almost as frantic as he had been _before_ being certain.

There were so many troubling aspects of this revelation; for one, it was a pairing between a human and Vulcan, something that was unheard of even with his mother and father’s arrangement. Though he did not question the fact that they loved each other deeply, neither had been originally fated to each other at birth, though his mother had always said that the early deaths of their respective soulmates were a sign that the two of them were fated to be mates after all. This true pairing was undoubtedly a result of Spock’s mixed genetics, and the thought made him inwardly cringe; his existence had forced Jim Kirk into an unorthodox, interspecies relationship between two exclusively mating lifeforms. 

In addition to this, how would the mating ritual even occur? Vulcan mating melds were volatile, deeply exhausting rituals that would not be suitable to the human psyche, but would solely human mating practices be effective? 

Spock knew, though he was loathe to admit it, that all his panicked questioning was really wild extrapolations of a fairly simple one: Would Jim Kirk be accepting of their status as soulmates? Though his behavior towards Spock had changed drastically in the past week, he was still the primary facilitator of the drollery circulated around the cadets at Spock’s expense. He had begun what were now a common nicknames for him amongst the student population; monickers such as robot and droid that obviously targeted his primarily Vulcan behavior and by extension could speak of a distaste for Vulcans in general.

Distantly, Spock knew he was panicking as he so often did in unorthodox situations. He understood very little of what such a pairing would even entail, but there had been Vulcan-Human relationships in the past. His very genetics was proof of that. And if it had happened before, there would be information to research from.

Spock stood, alarmingly unsteady, and tucked his PADD under his arm. It had been far too long since he’d visited the library.

 

As expansive and thorough as the Starfleet library was, Spock quickly remembered why he had begun to avoid it the moment he stepped inside. Despite being a common research area for both teachers and students, he was not very popular amongst the cadets. Unkind whispers followed his everywhere he stepped, reminding him of his peers in early education on Vulcan. Not much had changed.

Finally settling in a deserted corner of the library, he soon found that even the most complete library lacked information, and Vulcan-Human relationships were far from the most pressing questions researchers had. He managed to find a short article on the differences between human and Vulcan genitalia which was as uncomfortable to read as it was unhelpful(they were nearly the same), and an equally vague study documenting (quite poorly) the effects of a common mind meld between a Vulcan and a human. The latter only served the bring forth a wave of anxiety as he read the results, some of the worst being blinding headaches and irreparable mental damage, as well as great pain during the linking and the dissolving of the meld.

He did not want to know how a Vulcan mating bond would affect the mind or body of a human, and yet at the same time he absolutely needed to know. Of course, one had never been documented. Spock looked down at his clenched hands in frustration, the human appendages lined with veins of green blood. He blinked in realization, and wondered belatedly if his mental faculties were being compromised already.

Spock called his mother. She picked up on the third ring, her smile somehow transferring her love and warmth through the grainy screen of his comm unit. 

“Spock, dear, how are you?” The sound of her voice made Spock smile inadvertently, though he did not mind this small slip of emotion. She took in his expression and read him as well as she always had. “Is something wrong.”

“Mother, I, ah―” Spock scrambled for the words. “I have some good news.” he said finally, though his mind had already begun to treat it as something terrible. “I have found a match. To my fingerprints. It would appear that I do have a soulmate after all.”

His mother’s eyes widened, her excited gasp an interesting contradiction to the tears in her eyes. “Spock, that is amazing! But how is it possible?”

“His prints were not on file.” Spock replied, lowering the volume of his unit and his own voice. The nearest students were only a few meters away, if he was hearing them right. 

“Of course!” She clapped a hand to her forehead in another display of human emotion. Spock had found it disconcerting in his youth, but now it had been normalized in his mind. “Why hadn’t we thought of that?”

“It was only logical that we trusted the records Earth keeps of its inhabitants.” Spock said. “They are very thorough. He is a very… talented individual. It would be safe to assume that the majority of humans have their real information on file.”

His mother nodded, her expression changing to the far away look humans often adopted when deep in thought. Spock had been told on several occasions that he behaved no differently. “Spock, is there something wrong?” she asked after a moment. “Is that why you’re calling me?”

Spock felt a rush of guilt; he had neglected to contact his mother over the past few months, despite knowing her love of their conversations. He hated that she was correct in her assumption that he needed something from her.

“He is a human.” Spock stated, quickly continuing as it became apparent that she had yet to grasp the gravity of that fact. “Mother, I am half Vulcan. I possess Vulcan mental abilities. How can I―How can we―?”

“Darling,” she cut in, smiling softly. “I know you’re panicking. Do not overthink this. If you are a match, the stars have fated it to be. The two of you are meant to be together.”

Spock swallowed, the smallest part of his fears washing away at his mother’s vague but undeniably true logic. He started over. “I was… confused as to how such a relationship was meant to function; since you and father are of a similar situation, I seeked your advice.”

There was a full smile on his mother’s face how, though her expression quickly turned serious. “I will not lie to you.” Spock’s heart was executing odd palpitations again. “There will be certain challenges in any Vulcan-Human relationship. You must remember how much stronger you compared to humans; do not be afraid to lose control, but always be certain that you will not harm him.”

Spock nodded, the anxiety returning with full force. He had forgotten about that particular difference in their physiology.

“And what of the telepathy?” Spock almost didn’t want to ask. “The ritual?”

His mother raised her eyebrows, immediately concerned. “We’ve never completed the Vulcan ritual, since we are not… true mates. I am sorry Spock, but that is one aspect of your relationship that is truly unprecedented.”

“It is quite alright,” Spock replied, though he felt the exact opposite. The thought of harming Jim, in a mental or physical sense, was harrowing. “Thank you for your help. I will contact you soon.”

“Goodbye, son.” Her smile returned, soft and loving. “I am so very happy for you.”

 

Spock’s walk from the library to his office was a trying attempt to formulate some kind of course of action. And yet, in this instance of utmost importance, his mind could not think of any logical way to approach Jim Kirk about their status as soulmates. 

As he thought, an officer raced to his office to relay the news about Vulcan’s emergency alarm, effectively taking the matter out of Spock’s hands. 

 

*****

 

Spock could not help but feel that the walls of his quarters on the Enterprise were containing him, a cage for the emotions that were so relentlessly uncontrollable. He was still shaking from the encounter, the anger and sadness and guilt so intense in his mind that he could not decide how to feel, how to behave. His mother had died only minutes ago, along with his home planet. He had nearly killed his soulmate not long after.

His mind replayed the recent events in a loop as he lay on his bed and attempted to wrest some control on his thoughts. It was impossible, when he kept seeing the intelligent glint in Jim’s eyes, hearing the roar of blood in his ears, feeling that all consuming anger. When it still seemed, at moments, as if he were still choking Jim on the console.

In the end, guilt won out. He knew why Jim had provoked him; Spock was emotionally compromised, and too stubborn to admit it. Rather than accept his own failings as a captain he had lashed out at his subordinate, at the person that was meant to be the most precious thing Spock had in his life.

Thinking of his mother seemed to cause him physical pain. Her words washed over him, kind and concerned. _Do not be afraid to lose control, but always be certain that you will not harm him._

Spock returned to the bridge. He could barely stand to look at his Captain; the bruises on Jim’s neck fit his fingers perfectly. They made him wish, for short moments, that he had perished with his mother on Vulcan.

 

They return to Earth and San Francisco is unchanged, the same street vendors on the streets, the same tides coming into the harbor. With the loss still pressed into his heart, with the thoughts of billions dying still present in Spock’s mind, it seemed wrong that this place had not seemed to change at all.

Of course, Starfleet has changed. Campus filled with individuals who were now officials rather than cadets, sped along in their careers by the circumstances of Nero’s attack. The man Spock was looking for had perhaps been promoted the farthest. 

“Captain.” 

Jim turned and greeted him with the smile that seemed to immediately charm every lifeform he gave it to. “Spock, I told you. Call me Jim.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, wondering if the man was referring to the first time he had said it, drunk in his office. “Jim.” he amended. “Could we speak in private?”

They moved away from the rest of the crew who had gathered in the Starfleet courtyard, all excited at the prospect of rest and from what he had gleaned from the conversation, copious amounts of alcohol.

“So, what d’you need?” 

“I would like to apologize for my behavior after the… destruction of Past Vulcan.” Spock could still see the light shadow of bruises above Jim’s collar. “I was―”

“Dealing with the death of your mother and your planet.” Jim cut in, looking stern. “Spock, you have got to stop apologizing for that. It’s fine! I knew I was being an ass, and besides, Bones gave me a black eye once. This stuff just happens.” 

Spock grimaced but nodded in acquiescence anyways. Bones was Jim’s friend; friends could be expected to have physical disagreements now and them. Jim did not understand― _could not understand_ ―why there was a difference. Mates protected one another. It was amongst the highest shames, to harm one’s soulmate.

“Hey,” Jim reached over and squeezed Spock’s arm gently, obviously reading his unhappiness as loneliness. “The crew’s going out for drinks tonight; everyone’ll be there. Are you coming?”

Spock looked at him. He was just surprised enough, just confused enough, to say yes.

 

 

It soon became clear to Jim the moment they walked into the bar that Spock had been just as surprised with his acceptance as Jim had been, because the man looked more panicked than he’d been in Nero’s ship. Actually, he hadn’t even looked panicked then. Calm and in control. 

Maybe Bones was right; Spock was shit at socialization. 

Feeling the responsibility as his friend and Captain, Jim sat himself down in the seat across from Spock in the booth he had holed up in and cemented his resolve to get this man drunk. It wasn’t as hard as he’d expected it to be; within five minutes of his whining Spock had ordered something alcoholic and probably Vulcan, sipping it as he spoke in a way that Jim found far too distracting.

He used conversation to divert his attentions, though frankly he’d had enough to drink that his already useless filter had completely broken down. He asked about the first thing he thought of.

“So those, ah, tattoos?” Jim gestured vaguely at Spock’s neck area, where the outlines of what seemed like vines were marked into his skin. “They mean you’re like me, right? Insola… something.”

The alcohol had loosened Spock’s tongue as well. “They indicate that I do not have a Vulcan soulmate, yes.” Jim from five shots ago may have caught his odd wording. Instead, currently inebriated Jim plowed onward.

“So they just… show up? No colors? They’re s’pose to have colors, right?”

“They had color, but it faded out after a few moments, indicating my status.”

Jim’s eyes widened, his drunken curiosity not unlike a newborn puppy’s. “What color were they?”

“Blue.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Okay, but like, what… shade of blue? Galaxy blue? Navy blue?”

Spock leaned forward, his tone conspiratorial. “They were the color of your eyes.” he admitted. Jim nodded vigorously, as if he understood the meaning completely. “The _exact_ shade.”

 

 

“Wow...” 

Spock watched his Captain’s lips form the words slowly, his hearing shutting off in favor devoting all mental faculties to this course of action. 

“...or do they just meditate under a tree, or something?”

“Pardon?” Spock blinked, his eyes flickering upward to make eye contact. Jim was staring at him with the kind of frustration small children had when their fortresses fell.

“Kids on Vulcan?” Jim licked his lips and Spock had to rouse his considerably debilitated willpower to focus and look away. 

“What of them?”

“What’re they like?” Jim was leaning forward again, ready to share in the secret. His wide blue eyes blinked up at Spock and instigated those odd, uncontrollable palpitations in his chest. “Were you a good kid?”

Spock had a sudden flash of memories he from his childhood, of negative laughter and all-consuming anger, of always being the sub-standard peculiarity. He reached for his glass again.

“I was adequate.” he replied. Unhappiness seemed to bring back a semblance of sobriety, and for a moment Spock noted with great alarm the proximity between himself and the Captain. And then he was sinking down, head almost resting on his arms. Logical, his mind mused. Now you and Jim are on the same plane of vision. “The others did not enjoy my company.”

Jim’s jaw dropped, his head tilting with the action. Did humans exaggerate all expression when inebriated? “Why not? You’re… you’re so great!”

Though his words warmed Spock in a way that was wholly unfamiliar to him, he knew better than to accept them as the truth. 

“They had reason to dislike me.” he admitted, giving in to rest his head on his arms. The drink in his glass swirled, reflecting the pulsing blue lights of the bar. “I was much more emotional than a Vulcan should be, and it made them uncomfortable. I would lose control.” _It is not a problem you have solved,_ never em>lose control. Never.” 

The unhappiness returned with a flourish. “Those are significantly false statements, especially from you, Capt― _Jim_.” The name still felt foreign on his tongue, as if it was something forbidden. “My apolog―”

“ _No._ ” Jim sounded so seriously it was as if he were sober, though it was apparent from his uncoordinated arm gestures that he was not. The rogue limb found its way to stillness on Spock’s arm, the contact a surprise. As always, his hand was cool on his arm, the grip relatively comfortably though by human standards it would be strong. “Spock, you gotta just… let that go. It’s not… I mean, I prov...prova―?”

“Provoked me?” Spock shook his head, the action jerky. “There is no excuse for my actions.” Ever since the events of that day, Spock had carried that sentiment heavily in his heart. If he was capable of nearly choking his mate to death, what else? What damage could he inflict with his mental abilities? “The risk is too high.” he muttered. He took another sip.

“Risk?” Jim’s hand had left his arm in favor of his cup. Spock mourned the contact; even through clothing he had been able to sense the general content and happiness exuded by the other man. He was completely oblivious. He needed to stay that way. 

“Nothing.” Spock said hastily, then realizing it sounded suspicious, added, “I simply meant the risk of alcohol poisoning.”

“You’ve barely had two glasses!” Jim’s laughter was a pleasant byproduct of his slip up. 

Spock nearly rolled his eyes, though such an action would be overly expressive and immature. “I was speaking on your behalf.”

“I’m not―” Jim stared at the table, appraising the field of empty shot glasses he had creating during the evening. “Okay, so maybe just a bit.”

After that revelation (and subsequent barring of Jim consuming anything other than drinks that fizzed upon opening) the conversation shifted from Spock’s childhood to the possibly more depressing topic of Jim’s childhood. Though the thought was irrational Spock felt a terrible yearning to protect the boy the Captain had been a decade ago, to shield him from a distant and unhealthy family that Spock at least had been spared from.

It was only until Spock had realized he could not recall the number of glasses he’d had that he decided his inebriation was edging on severe.

“Perhaps we should... as you say, ‘call it an evening?’”

Jim haphazardly stabbed at his PADD with his fingers and looked at the time, his smile widening. “Call it a morning, actually.” The PADD clattered loudly on the table the moment Jim looked away to search for his friend. “I’ll just… uh, get Bones? And then we can… wait a sec.”

Spock surveyed his surroundings with Jim, observing with surprise that their crewmates had abandoned them in the bar, leaving them alone with only three other patrons. “What time is it, exactly?”

Jim grinned at him, looking slightly abashed. “Three in the morning.”

Spock’s mind whirred slowly in his drunken state. “That would be… We have been here for nearly five hours?”

“I guess.” Jim stood unsteadily and Spock reached across to help him without thinking about it. As they walked to the entrance Jim leaned on him with much greater frequency than he believed it to be. They had walked almost half the distance to Starfleet when Jim froze, Spock’s body leaning into his back before he could stop himself. “Fuck.”

“Is something amiss?” The alcohol and his preoccupation with their proximity had made Spock’s mind… a little less functional. 

Jim groaned, slumping back into his Commander as if the other man were a wall. “Starfleet locks up at one-thirty.”

Spock blinked before he understood. “You live on campus?”

Jim nodded miserably. “It’d be fine, but my ID’s with _Bones_ , the traitor.”

“My household is outside of Starfleet Academy.” At the time it had seemed like a perfectly logical thing to say. “It is but a miles from here.”

Jim grinned at him in a way that made Spock feel as if he had done something exceptionally good. “That’s great! Which way?”

 

*****

 

Kirk laughed, rather loudly, and slapped a hand onto the Commander’s arm, making half the crew that was left glance towards them. As a whole, they were all much more sober than their two commanding officers, sacrificing a night of heavy drinking for something that was much more entertaining.

Spock smiled widely (drunkenly) back at the Captain, making Scotty―another avid observer―choke on his soda so hard it prompted Keenser to slap him violently on the back, which actually seemed to make it worse.

Bones was a reserved man. Not in the sense that he liked nice words and beating around the bush, but when people were being harmless idiots, who was he to point it out to them?

“Alright, guys.” he told the remaining officers. “Let’s call it a night, give these two some privacy, hm?”


	2. Chapter 2

Upon waking the next morning, Spock reached the quick conclusion that he disliked alcoholic drinks a great deal. 

They were illogical to consume, with no real positive consequences. Only negatives; his appalling headache, for example, and the temporary alteration of his mental faculties that had allowed him to invite his equally intoxicated Captain into his household.

His eidetic memory had managed to remember all the embarrassing occurrences from the bar, but somehow completely failed at recalling any events past their arrival at his residence. 

It may not have been quite as alarming had Spock not realized the position they were in, he himself lying not quite on his bed while Jim lay sprawled on the majority of it, his legs cool where they tangled with Spock. He realized belatedly that there was a limp arm across his torso, as if Jim had been trying to keep him from falling off the bed. An unnecessary gesture; it warmed Spock’s heart far too much.

With only slightly compromised thoughts, Spock sat up and quickly began cataloguing the details of their situation, noting with relief (and certainly no disappointment) that they were both still fully clothed in Starfleet uniform. Turning his head slowly so as to not agitate his already sensitive headache, he looked to where the clock read that it was nearly eleven in the morning.

“Jim.” he murmured, gently shaking the other man’s shoulder. He wondered, distantly, if was normal to find slack-jawed stupors endearing. “Jim, it is far past the time appropriate for waking up.”

The Captain groaned and turned bodily into the mattress, his hands coming up to hide his face. Spock felt his breath catch in his throat for a moment, the irrational urge to lean down and… no, no, what was he thinking? 

“..Sppk?” Jim slurred. His hands fell from his face as he turned to lay on his back, blue eyes blinking at Spock in confusion. They suddenly shot open. “What―”

“It’s alright,” Spock said, hesitant. Jim sat up cautiously. He looked between Spock and himself, and then at the bed, and panic widened his eyes. 

“Uh, did we―”

Spock froze, his mind knowing the question but refusing to comprehend it. “N-no.” he finally stuttered, blinking fast. “It appears we collapsed upon entering.”

Jim laughed quietly, obviously uncomfortable. “Well thank god.” He grinned, and Spock could not return the sentiment. “That would have been terrible.”

Spock nodded, looking away. His suppression, his control; it seemed to all be drifting away, insignificant to the sheer intensity of the pain that tore through him, psychological and illogical but still undeniably _there._   
_He is disgusted._ Spock felt the hope he’d been unwillingly collecting over the months dissolve, leaving him empty. _He does not want you._

It should not have surprised him, not really. The Captain had always been much more interested in women, his… dalliances with men infrequent and short. And male or female, his partners all shared a glaring trait that Spock lacked; they were all completely human. 

It was decided then. He would forego informing the Captain of their matched status; such an admission would only complicate their working relationship and perhaps even cause them to be separated onto different ships. The thought made Spock feel even worse than he already did; this would be enough. Being Jim’s second hand, playing chess, being given the occasional smile; it would all be enough for him. Being his friend was better than being nothing.

 

Jim had noticed his First Officer’s odd behavior two missions after the incident with Nero; he had been to Spock’s quarters, intent on asking him to discuss their final report over chess, when he had spotted the other man at the end of the hall for only a moment before he ducked away and disappeared. Jim was certain Spock had seen him, and slightly less certain that seeing him had sent the man running.

It troubled him constantly now, having gone nearly five missions without even exchanging five sentences with Spock outside of the command line. The frustration was worse than it had been when they’d initially began working together because at least then he had _known_ why Spock disliked him. Now, he could only remember finally making some progress, finally getting a smile from that stubborn Vulcan, landing back on Earth, and then... What? What had changed?

Bones was even less sympathetic to Jim’s plight than he usually was.

“Just ask the hobgoblin what’s eating him instead of asking _me_ , Kirk―stop moving!” Jim attempted to dodge a third hypospray and failed, the sting even stronger now because Bones always used the _same spot.do_ know that.” Jim snapped. How many times had he initiated a conversation with Spock? Probably all of them. “This is _different_ , okay? I’ve literally seen him run away from me _three times._ ” He stared imploringly at his friend. “Do you think if you scanned him with the tricorder I could see what’s going wrong?”

Bones snorted. “Go _talk_ to him, Jim.” In an extremely rare gesture, he actually pushed Jim _out_ of Sickbay. “If he runs, stun his ass. I won’t log it in the records.”

Jim nodded, and then froze. “Bones, that’s _brilliant._ ”

Okay, so maybe this wasn’t exactly a conversation with Spock. More like a… monologue, from Spock. Or a complete invasion of privacy.

Jim was honestly too far gone to care by this point. Hacking Starfleet’s private databases took a bit of work, but it didn’t take too long(he would have been playing chess with Spock at this hour, but). The contents of Spock’s personnel file, including all logs dating back to the Narada mission, lit up his computer screen in a white wash. 

Jim was about to click on the logs during the Adarak mission when something else caught his eyes, a little red colored line under the section _Legal Infractions._

He clicked on it instead. Spock, arrested? It was listed as a minor offense, but still. Had he been charged with taking the life out of a party somewhere?

The contents of the arrest file loaded down his screen and Jim had to read the file two times over before it started to really sink in. “What the _fuck?_ ” he hissed to himself, reading it yet again. _Public displays of indecency. Stardate 2257.45, Valentine’s Day. Happy Juice?_

_I did this,_ Jim realized, remembering the guy he’d been with―Scott? Sam?―and the drunken haze of lust that had turned so quickly into horrified embarrassment. Wait, the name was even on file: Samuel Davis. This had been him.

How did they ever pin Spock for this? And why did he pay the fine?

It took only minutes to access the police records, even from a starship light years away from Earth―San Francisco P.D. was just that weak―and his eyes flew to the area showing pieces evidence of the crime. There was only one real piece, though, a set of dusty fingerprints next to the picture of two neatly inked ones. The words underneath them read POSITIVE MATCH in glaringly bold letters.

Jim felt the vestiges of something like a panic attack starting to happen, swallowing while trying to keep his breathing in check. His fingers felt numb where they hovered over the keys, and he couldn’t help stare at those words, over and over, _positive match._

Without really thinking about it, his mind on autopilot as half of it scrambled and freaked the fuck out, Jim downloaded the high-res version of the Spock’s prints onto his PADD and waited the most agonizing thirty seconds of his life as they ran a match scan.

_Positive match._

“ _Shit._ ” Jim threw his head back, the PADD clattering forgotten on the floor. His ceiling seemed to be mocking him. Everything seemed to be mocking him, because he must have been the most idiotic human in the world, must have been more obtuse than Spock was about emotions, because _how the fuck had he not known?_

He grabbed and data PADD and ran faster than he had in a long time.

 

The shift tracker showed a small blue light that was Spock padding around his quarters, the sight a relief as Jim blew past three people from engineering, barely registering them. At this point he would have confronted the main in the cafeteria if he had to, but really, this sort of thing… it was like the definition of private.

Jim decided to be guilty about hacking Spock _later_ and angry about not being told about this _now._

He knocked with what he thought was a polite amount of force (between a sledgehammer and a flying brick) on Spock’s door and waited five seconds before reaching over for the Captain’s override on the keypad, about to finish just as the doors slid open to reveal a rather alarmed looking Spock. _Spock_ being the keyword, since on a human he would have looked slightly bored. After the initial shock, discomfort settled on his features, an expression all too familiar to Jim, and now he knew why. Ha fuckin ha.

“Captain.” Spock looked at him from head to toe, his expression morphing to somehow convey the emotion you-look-like-a-panicking-mess, or maybe Jim was just projecting onto him. “Is there something you want?”

Jim shoved the data PADD breathlessly in Spock’s face, set to the screen of their matched fingerprints, and watched with _way_ too many emotions as his First Officer’s face morphed from confusion to seriousness to dull horror.

“You―” Jim sucked in a breath, pushing past Spock and sealing the door to his room. “You need to explain this to me.”

“Captain, I―”

“Jim!” He knew he was probably sounding slightly psychotic, but _damn it_ this was ridiculous. He reached across and pulled Spock towards him by both shoulders. “If we’re, I don’t know, _soulmates_ or some shit, you should call me by my first name, _right?”_

Spock swallowed, the action humanizing him. Jim realized with a start that he looked almost terrified, eyes flitting to anything that wasn’t Jim. They settled on the floor. “Jim,” he said, voice soft. “It is true that we are matched. I am half-Vulcan, as you know, and inherited my mother’s human fingers.” Jim waited, expecting more. Anything, really. A long enough silence seemed to throw Spock into action. “T-that is, to say,” he stuttered, speech fast. “I do not expect anything from you. I understand how you regard me, and being that you are human it is only natural for you to be uncomforta― _mph_.”

Jim leaned back from the kiss, smiling. Somewhere along the way his hands had moved past Spock’s shoulders until his arms were draped over them, fingers curled in that short, ridiculously prim hair. Spock looked so shocked he could have laughed, though that might have broken the poor guy, his arms still pin straight against his sides. “Sorry, was that okay?” Jim really hope he hadn’t sent him into reboot or something. “Spock?”

“I…” His eyes, now humanly wide and frantic, danced from Jim’s wavering smile to his lips and back. “I do not understand.”

Jim tried to raise an eyebrow like Spock (the imitation failed spectacularly). “You don’t understand… the kiss?”

Spock nodded in jerky moments. 

Jim wrestled his self-consciousness under control and smiled softly. “I just needed to shut you up for a second there.” Spock blinked, hurt flashing across his eyes for only a second, and Jim reminded himself _why_ he’d needed to shut him up. “Also,” Jim continued hurriedly. “I just really wanted. To kiss you.” He cupped Spock’s face, which had turned heartbreakingly vulnerable, and looked at him straight on. “Do you want me as well?”

For a terrifying second, it seemed as if he’d say ‘no’, and Jim was already panicking, wondering how he’d recover from this mess, whether or not he would have to resign as Captain because he could _not_ handle this, when Spock whispered, _“Yes.”_

Jim could barely control the wideness of his smile, hiding it with another kiss. Spock’s hands tentatively rested on his waist and Jim could have _melted._ Bones was right. He was pathetic and he needed help. He broke the kiss and leaned his chin on Spock’s shoulder, drawing him in close. “Why would you ever think I didn’t want you?” he murmured. He hadn’t meant for the question to be literal, but of course Spock took it that way.

“Your behavior after the Narada mission, at my residence.” Jim could feel the curl of fingers in the fabric of his shirt. “You seemed displeased, with the idea of… intimacy, with me.”

He wracked his brain and found that morning, embarrassed and hungover and feeling the weight of Spock’s gaze on him. “Sorry,” he mumbled, turning to nudge Spock’s neck. He felt him shiver slightly at that; the action made Jim smile far too wide. “I was panicking. Thought you’d be weirded out.”

“It is my fault.” Spock pulled back and Jim resisted the urge to cling to him like a starfish. “You had the right to know.”

Jim shrugged, looking up coquettishly. “I know now.”

“Indeed.”

Spock was looking far too composed with all of this, though there was still a tinge of disbelief in his features. Jim decided to make it his mission in life to kiss that off his face.

They made it to the bed before Spock seemed to realize what he was doing and froze, the hand on Jim’s waist stiffening as he pulled away. “What’s wrong?” Jim breathed. He wondered Spock’s hair had it’s own tiny gravity field, maybe that’s why it _never got disheveled._ Even lying against a damn pillow―Jim knew for a fact that he now looked like a mess. 

Spock blinked nervously and the expression was so endearing Jim had to stop himself from cooing like Spock was a puppy. He’d probably never sleep with him if that happened. “I…” Jim let his head fall back, content to gaze at Spock from a distance (of five inches, but still). “I can’t…”

“It’s alright.” Jim shoved down the disappointment; this relationship was literally five minutes old. “No rush.” Spock looked relieved enough to make Jim’s heart flutter. Damn it. He was hopeless. “Want to, ah, get dinner?”

A hint of the old Spock surfaced as he raised his eyebrows, amused. “It is nearly ten at night, Jim.”

_Jim._ His mind in no way executed miniature fist pumps. “I haven’t eaten.” He smiled sheepishly. “I was… hacking.”

“That I surmised,” Spock said, sitting up and bringing Jim with him. “I am glad you made the effort.”

 

They were half way to the cafeteria―Spock’s replicator had no pizza, the heathen―before Jim realized why the crewmen were giving them funny looks. 

“Shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as if that might tame it. There was nothing he could do about his lips. Spock, of course, looked as immaculate as ever (was his hair even real?), though even his lips were slightly redder than normal.

The problem was he couldn’t even shut down his giggling crew, because it was exactly what it looked like.

“Is something amiss?” Spock looked at him, obviously concerned, and Jim smiled, only a little annoyed.

“Nah, I just realized we’re stirring up the gossip around here.” They had been walking for maybe less than five minutes and Uhura had already sent him three comm messages that contained far too many emoticons. Sometimes he why Starfleet felt the need to allow officers to send moons and angry faces instead of words, though it was hilarious on official reports. 

Spock nodded. “I do suppose we’ll have to file an official relationship declaration soon, before the Admiralty here of it from secondary sources.”

Jim grinned, imagining Pike’s face when he read the report. The last time he’d seen them together their relationship had fallen comfortably into the _unfriendly-volatile_ zone.

Even when the replicator lacked an option for pepperoni Jim’s mood didn’t falter. All he had to do was look over at his First Officer to nudge a smile onto his face. Spock was looking the most adorable combination of self-conscious and satisfied every time someone so much as raised an eyebrow in their direction, though Jim could tell he was preoccupied with thoughts a little less than pleasant, from the way he would stare off whenever Jim got deep into conversation with his pizza.

He nudged his First Officer and smiled at him as best he could with a mouth full of replicated cheese. “Something up?” he asked (or at least he hoped he asked, though the resulting sounds were more like ‘Smthn oph?’).

Thankfully, Spock was good at understanding him. Or he could read his mind even through the clothes. He’d have to ask about that, too. “Nothing is amiss, Jim.” Jim swallowed and then smiled wider at his name coming out of Spock’s mouth, even though he was totally lying

“Spock,” He wagged a tomato sauce covered finger at him and hoped not too many of his crew could see him at the moment. “Vulcan’s cannot lie.”

Spock gave him a small frown at being found up, less angry and more petulant in a way that gave Jim the strangest urge to coo. He didn’t, because he valued his Captaincy. Also Bones was somewhere on this ship, just ready to make high school jokes. Spock’s frown deepened into something more serious and Jim felt his own mood shift with it. Was he… regretful? Did he not want this after all, after he’d experienced it?

Jim had confidence in his kissing abilities. He also had confidence in his complete ability to screw up inter-species relationships because he knew _nothing_ about Vulcan mating except some joke in the academy about fucking by holding hands, and that couldn’t be right, could it―?

“Jim.” Spock shook him out of his reverie quite literally, with a hand on his wrist. Perhaps he had sensed the oncoming panic in Jim’s mind. “It does not… it is not something you should concern yourself with. It is an issue of my own.”

“Oh,” Jim felt relief make his whole body relax even as concern replaced it. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me? Maybe I can help.”

Spock shook his head determinedly. “I can resolve this on my own. It is of small consequence to our lives.”

“Alright.” Jim replied, ready to give him his privacy (for now, because anything that worried Spock enough for him to show it must be pretty serious), and shifted closer to him. He leaned up for a kiss, smiling at Spock’s small noise of surprise. “What?” He could practically hear the gasps in the cafeteria. Did someone just drop a plate? “Just confirming what they already know.”

 

Spock returned to his quarters more conflicted than he’d been when he had decided to keep their soulmate status from Jim (a futile attempt). The overwhelming happiness warred with concern over filing an official relationship report now that the Captain had all but announced it to half of the waking crew, and over the matter of Vulcan mating rituals and human mating rituals and the soulmate bond and his… broken data PADD.

He frowned at the device, realizing belatedly that in his panic of thoughts he had crushed the thin device in his fingers.

This did not, predictably, improve his mood. The same issues as before confronted him, but now were inescapable; he was emotionally incapable of abandoning a relationship with Jim unless Jim wished for it, and thus they would have to bond. The only questions remaining were which method, the human bonding or Vulcan bond, would be suitable for them, and after that decision, how Spock would avoid harming Jim in the process.

The thought overwhelmed his mind so completely he could have been physically ill. It had never truly occurred to him how much stronger his Vulcan physiology was―3.67 times, to be exact―until he had been crushing his Captain’s trachea against a console, his neck yielding much too easily, his protesting hands barely registering in his anger. He had lost control then, just as he had briefly lost control with the data PADD. How would he manage to control himself during human bonding practices?

Despite this, after hours of intensive (and mildly uncomfortable) research, Spock decided the human practice was still safer than attempting a Vulcan mate bond first. It was one of the few vestiges of their past that was alive and thriving, a reminder of just how ruthless and uncontrolled his race had been only a few millenia ago. It was a meld that could potentially harm weak telepaths within the Vulcan population in its violence, and the physical aspect was much the same. It was, as humans often said, a choice between the lesser of two evils, though he was loathe to think of something as important and precious as soul bonding in that way. Nevertheless, he loathed the idea of hurting Jim even more.

Delaying, Spock realized, would be the only proper course of action. It was only right to give Jim a suitable amount of time in which he could decide to terminate the relationship before they were bound permanently. 

He settled onto his bed and attempted meditation, though the calm was hard to reach through his thoughts, a seemingly endless list of unsurmountable troubles. So instead he thought of Jim alone, thought of him in the cafeteria and in his room (on this very bed), and allowed would he would say in this moment give him peace, because perhaps if Jim believed in the impossibility of no-win situations, it would be enough.

 

Jim noticed Spock’s odd behavior, _again_ , around a week after the official start of their relationship (according to the report they’d filed the next morning). It had taken a week because Spock had been nothing but perfect; sweet in his own, I-don’t-feel-emotions-I-swear kind of way (nobody bought it), and affectionate when they sat alone, playing three dimensional chess on the same side of the table so Jim could cuddle and watch the progression of Spock’s mint brushed blush. 

He had soon realized that Spock had ruined kissing for him forever, because no one had the right to be _that_ good. Soon after this revelation, he also notices than any time they so much as ventured past the border towards… coitus (as Spock would probably call it), Spock would freeze up like Jim on Delta Vega and not-so-smoothly divert their activities to something a lot less sexual. Usually it was chess. One time (the one time Jim had gone willingly) it had been a replicated deep dish pizza with so much sauce that Jim could have swam in it… his stomach complained about his line of thought, trying to make him change route to the cafeteria rather than the uncomfortable conversation awaiting him when he dragged Spock from the science hall to his quarters.

Thankfully, Spock was working alone in the lab, unsurprising since it was lunch time, as his stomach so usefully reminded him.

“Hey Spock,” he said as soon as the doors slid open, lifting a hand in greeting. Spock put down his test tubes and gave Jim a look that he had begun to think of as smiling, enough fondness in his eyes to make up for the small curve of his lips. “You busy?”

“Not at all.” Spock stepped away from the table and began removing his lab coat, revealing the blue science officer uniform that seemed _much_ too tight, did Spock know how to use the replicator properly? “I assume we are departing to lunch together?”

Jim blinked at him for a moment, trying to avoid a blush from his less than professional thoughts about… shirts. “Ah, no.” he said, inching away from the door so it sealed itself. Might as well do it here, with no one around. “Actually I need to talk to you.”

His tone must have sounded too serious or something like that, because Spock immediately got that subtle look in his eyes that told Jim he was about to start spouting nonsense like “I understand your decision to terminate this relationship Jim.” (It had happened three times. Three.). Jim wasn’t sure what about the word _soulmates_ Spock wasn’t getting, or where this lack of confidence in his complete and utter amazingness came from, but he hated it. 

“Spock, don’t give me that.” He walked over swiftly and cupped the sides of Spock’s face with both hands, leaning up to give him a kiss. “How many times do I have to say―”

“―we are soulmates.” Spock gave him one of his rare smiles, something almost shy about it. “My apologies.”

Jim leaned back. “Yeah, that’s actually what I wanted to, um, discuss with you. The soulmates part. The, uh…” It was like having the birds and bees conversation with his mother. “... bonding part. The―”

“I understand.” Jim could see his embarrassment on the tips of his ears, though he was more preoccupied with how tense Spock had become. “What exactly did you want to discuss?”

Jim swallowed. “I just… noticed, I guess, that you aren’t, er, completely down with the idea? I mean, I know it’s only been a week, but this isn’t like an unmatched relationship, and I don’t know, do Vulcan’s not… do that? Or are you not…” _Attracted to me? Comfortable with the idea? Did Vulcan’s even do… that? Did their babies just pop out of their skulls through sheer willpower and a few nights of meditation?_

“I am attracted to you in a physical manner.” Spock reassured him, his cheeks now dusted green. 

Jim scraped his mind. “Then is it just too soon?”

Spock shook his head, eyes suddenly latching on to anything but Jim’s. “It is… an issue I must resolve on my own.”

The words reminded him of their conversation that first night in the cafeteria, and Jim was having none of that. “Sex is not an issue you need to resolve on your own.” he said flatly, hoping blunt language would get an answer out of him. “Please, tell me what it is. I’m your mate. Wouldn’t this involve me just as much as you.”

Spock seemed to shrink in front of him, and Jim knew he had said something right. Finally, he gave what could almost be seen as a sigh. He continued to look down as he spoke, fingers fiddling with the hem of Jim’s shirt. 

“I have been… concerned.” he began. Jim forced himself not to make some comment that might push Spock into silence again. “As you must already know, Vulcan-Human relationships of this nature are very rare, and a true soulmate bond is unheard of. I believe it was only possible due to my mixed genetics, and I am the first human-vulcan hybrid in existence.” The last few words were said quietly. Jim frowned; Spock was much too ashamed of his biology. “This being as it is, I am still unable to determine whether human mating practices will be enough to form the bond, or if Vulcan methods are necessary. In the event of either of them, I have also been unable to formulate a plausible solution as to how I might avoid harming you in the process.”

Jim blinked, taking in all the information. “You’re afraid you’ll be rough in bed?” He winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but the notion was just so foreign; Spock was the gentleman of the ship. The laugh was out before he could stop it. “Spock, you’re not going to hurt me.” Upon seeing the truly unhappy expression on Spock’s face, Jim reached over to tilt his chin up, making their eyes meet. “I think you’re forgetting something, Spock.”

“And what is that?” Jim smiled at the faintly petulant tone, the normal Spock peeking through. He reached down and curled his hand into Spock’s, letting the pads of their fingers touch. 

“This,” He nudged Spock’s fingers. “Means that the universe has decided that we are meant to be. I am a firm believer that the universe would not pair you with a mate that you can’t bond with.”

“It is not only a question of bonding, Jim.” Spock’s fingers tightened around his own. “I cannot hurt you.”

Jim sighed. He leaned in and brought their foreheads together, reveling in the way Spock automatically closed his eyes at the gesture, dark eyelashes fanning across pale cheeks. “What would you do,” he asked. “for this?”

“Anything.” Spock breathed, so fast it couldn’t have been an answer he’d thought through.

“Exactly.” Jim smiled. Spock’s eyes blinked open and he looked at Jim questioningly. “Anything. So Spock, don’t think I’ll shy away from a little bruise or two if it means we can have this forever. That’s happened even _without_ a Vulcan in the mix.” Spock’s hand moved to his waist, almost possessive. It made something uncurl in Jim’s heart, something sappy and romantic. “And besides that, _you won’t hurt me._ I want to do this, Spock. Do you?”

“Yes.” Spock’s voice was quiet. He straightened and said in a more certain tone. “Yes, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So halfway through writing chapter three, and just a warning, um... the frick frack is going down ;)


	3. Frickle Frack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the chapter title; I think my humor stopped maturing around age 11 and has since then only deteriorated.

Jim had been told before that he was impatient and made bad decisions for it, but he had also been told that he made good decisions and was a great Captain, so he was going to listen to that second review, thank you very much. Of course, even he knew that Spock’s _“Yes, I do.”_ did not mean _Yes, tonight_ but it hadn’t been a no either. So again, he was going to go with that second thought as well.

If he was being honest with himself, he just wanted to be bonded. He didn’t want to spend another day alone in body and mind, another week of being _with_ Spock but not being _his._ Dreamy ideals, sure, but what else could he think? Soulmates were as close to magical as the universe got.

Like before, they got to the bed before Spock started to realize what was going on, pulling away.

“Hey,” Jim breathed, still catching his breath. He held Spock close, puny human strength be damned, and refused to let go. “Do you want this?”

Spock’s pupil’s were blown so wide his eyes almost seemed black, but at the same time he was tensing. “I…”

“Vulcans don’t lie.” Jim reminded him softly, moving down to kiss his neck, happy with the small sounds Spock made in response. He felt vaguely manipulative. 

Spock went pliant in his arms. “I want this.” he said, his tone almost guilty, as if it were something wrong, instead of the most _correct_ thing in the entire universe as far as Jim was concerned. Jim sucked a bit harder, smiling into the crook of his neck. “ _Jim._ ”

“What?” He blinked innocently even as he sat up and made his shirt disappear over the edge of Spock’s bed. His pants would have followed, if not for Spock capturing his wrists.

“Jim, I have told you, I cannot _control_ myself―”

“And _I’ve_ told you that you won’t hurt me.” Jim bent over and brushed kisses over Spock’s concerned features. “Spock, _trust me.”_

The moment he relaxed again he knew he’d gotten through (which is why he slid the bottle out of his pocket in the next moment), Spock’s hands moving from his wrists to his waist. Jim moved back to his lips, the kiss slow and almost tentative until he was abruptly rolled onto his back with embarrassing ease, and Spock was all he could take in, pinning his hips to the mattress, a hand tangled with his above their heads, and Jim rolled his hips upward without really thinking about it, feeling the pressure and the _ache_ and the knowledge that Spock definitely wanted this as much as he did.

They broke apart (for the unnecessary reason of air and the more reasonable task of getting Spock’s damn uniform off), and Jim could almost feel his apprehension as Spock’s fingers danced along the hem of his jeans and so he saved him the trouble, arcing upward and sliding them off with practiced movements. His legs curled around Spock’s waist and Jim smiled, drawing him down so he could kiss the blush away. 

Spock’s formal slacks followed not much long after (as did his boxers, which were _checkered_ ), and in the small part of Jim’s mind that had not already dissolved into incoherency Jim thought that a bashful Spock was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.

“You’re so beautiful.” he murmured, reaching down to curl his fingers around Spock’s length, watching a shudder run down his entire body. By this point it was obvious that this wasn’t something normal, that he wasn’t supposed to feel _this much_ want and so much warmth and _love_ the first time around. His left hand fumbled around for a moment to locate the bottle before breaking the kiss again to press it into Spock’s hand. He spoke against Spock’s lips, their breath mingling. “ _Please._ ”

Spock let out an honest to god moan, soft and obviously a slip but it made Jim’s breath stutter. 

“I-I have never…” Spock looked at him with mild panic, overladen with lust.

“A lubricant.” Jim panted, popping the lid open for him. He felt like a science instructor, and it was such a ridiculous notion at the moment that he wanted to laugh. Frankly, he also wanted _Spock_ , but his brain was quickly turning to mush as he unconsciously moved with the friction. “Fingers,” he managed, betting on the fact that Spock researched the hell out of everything. “Then…” He drizzled some of the oil onto his own fingers and then wrapped them around Spock’s… above average cock, sliding (Were Vulcan’s just larger in general? Larger intellect, larger strength, larger…). This time Spock’s groan was unrestrained.

“Are you, _ah_ , are you certain?” 

Jim could not imagine a larger understatement than _certain_ at the moment. “Spock, _god_ , yes.” He recaptured Spock’s lips, swollen and red as his by this point, determinedly keeping him asking any other nervous questions. He pumped Spock slowly, feeling the kiss turn almost rough when he did, their tongues sliding past one another as if fighting for something.

He couldn’t help the small noise that escaped from the back of his throat when a finger slid in, warm and slick and without warning, curling for a minute before easing out, beginning to move slowly.

“Are you―alright?” Jim smiled. Spock sounded almost as uncomposed as he did, though he _was_ still forming complete sentences. The tip of another finger barely brushed his entrance. “May I―?”

“Yes, Spock, _of course”_ Jim panted, as Spock seemed to unconsciously press him into the mattress, surrounding him. He felt like unraveling at every stretch and ache, felt like he would burn up in the intensity that he faced, felt all too willing to do so. He stroked Spock’s length with an unsteady hand, his movements erratic and punctuated with every little thrust. 

Spock’s hand moved from cradling Jim’s head to his face, pressing down in three distinct spots that Jim recognized. He opened his eyes, breaking from the kiss to meet Spock’s nearly pitch black irises, his face warring between confliction and lust, and he _understood._

“Do it.” Jim breathed, not sure which he was asking for. It didn’t matter. “Spock, _please._ ” He moved back against Spock’s fingers, feeling them burn. “ _Spock._ ”

His length was considerable; larger than Jim had ever taken, anyways, but it didn’t matter, nothing mattered at that point, and even as Spock pressed in and the pain felt like _fire_ Jim pressed back, needing it more than anything and at the same time knowing it would not be enough. 

He was gentle, almost frustratingly so, his movements slow as Jim stretched, _burned_ , and then he was thrusting, a rhythm that managed to be too slow and far too much all at once, and Jim felt tears gather though he wasn’t certain whether it was from the pain or the happiness or the fact that he was simply overwhelmed, because yes, he was fucking _drowning._

The burn slowly faded as the thrusts came faster, gentleness making way for the possessive roughness Jim had seen earlier, all consuming and unforgiving, and yet his mind was still ringing at him, _not enough, not enough, not enough._ The low rumble Spock emitted sounded almost like a growl.

“ _Spock,_ ” he gasped. He clumsily pressed against the hand that still had fingers lightly pressed to his face, almost like an afterthought, and found Spock’s eyes boring into him, the absolute _need_ there as strong as his lust. He barely seemed present. “Do it,” he repeated, closing his eyes. “I want _everything._ ”

His thrusts quickened to an almost inhuman rate, enough to make Jim muffle his cries into his kisses, and then the fingers were pressing more firmly, impossibly hot against his skin, and then―

And then they were no longer in the Enterprise, no longer anywhere, wrapped up in Spock’s mind, in a place meant only for them, and Jim thought he could feel the burnt heat of a desert outside from the warmth they were creating, the feel of a dry breeze against his skin, and then he could not feel anything but _Spock_ , his thoughts bright in the way a star was, so intense it hurt to look at, and yet Jim was drawn, staring and staring and he could feel their very _souls_ in this place, intertwined completely.

It was staggering, _overwhelming_ , and Jim felt raw and vulnerable, safe and content, he felt Spock’s mind and body surround him and felt like a small speck in front of a god, ready to burn up because he was only human―right?―and Spock was so much more, _too much_ , and Jim knew he was fading even as he fought it, hated the panic he could feel seize that impossibly bright soul, and let his thoughts float away, _I love you, I love you, I love you…_

 

 

Jim could feel the emotions before he could feel the warmth, a yawning pit of despair and self-loathing and terror on the edges of his mind and in his heart, wholly unwelcome since he had been feeling _so damn good_ before he’d felt them, his previous mood light enough to lift the entire ship into space.

It took him―seconds? Minutes? Hours?―to notice that the emotions were not actually coming for himself. It was obvious, once he'd realized it—he didn't think he has the ability to feel so... Deeply. Intensely. It almost scared him, except Jim didn't like thinking that way, so instead it... Unsettled him. 

He reached out to it and shrank back; it was so raw, so volatile, that it almost seemed like he'd fall into it if he touched it. 

Slowly, distantly, Jim felt the warmth. It was physical, surrounding him, and as he awoke he could feel the touch that strengthened the connection, _Spock's hands_ on his cheeks, but despite the comfort the distress Jim was feeling (thought he was feeling?) made him force his eyes open, climbing out of his doze.

The warmth surrounding him was Spock, his face hovering inches above Jim's where they lay on the bed, cheeks flushed green and hair _finally_ in a disarray, and as lovely as the image was there was something seriously wrong with it.

Jim reached a hand up tentatively, feeling as if his limbs had liquified, and clumsily brushed away tears. 

"What's wrong?" he whispered, his voice surprisingly (embarrassingly) hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Spock?"

The other man seemed to be as dazed as he was, though a thousand times more distraught, blinking down at him as if he couldn't understand what was happening. Jim realized with a flush of warmth through his heart that he could _feel_ Spock's emotions, that even as Spock gently moved his hands away from his head and— _fuck_ —slid out of him with an obscene noise, he could still sense him, somewhere in his heart, where his soul must live. Bonded.

Suddenly Spock seemed to snap back to reality, his eyes becoming sharp. Something frantic jumped across their connection, panic and concern over laden with guilt. "Jim," he said urgently, eyes scanning Jim's face in a decidedly unromantic fashion. His hands returned to his face, and Jim got the vague notion that his mind was being _prodded._ "Jim, are you alright? Do you feel pain, anywhere?"

"I'm fine." He smiled; he ached possibly everywhere, and it was _wonderful._ "You okay?" The tears returned to his mind, along with the memories of their... Melding? Of the panic he had felt, the fading... "What happened? Did I pass out?" God, if Bones ever found out...

"You lost consciousness due to overexposure during our meld. Your mind was inaccessible for approximately two and a half minutes." Spock sat back, eyes combing over Jim's body in a way that made him shiver, though Spock's expression only darkened. "You may have also suffered extensive tissue damage, though I will not be able to ascertain the severity until—"

_"Spock."_ Jim followed him up with a wince, stretching with a small yawn. He was starting to sound suspiciously like a Sickbay injury report after one of their away missions. "I'm fine, see?" He gestured to his rather boneless but otherwise unharmed person. "I'm human, so it probably normal for me to not be used to that big brain of yours so soon. Also," He leaned in for a kiss, smiling at the way Spock's eyes fluttered when he gave a small roll of his hips. ", anyone would pass out, after that."

Obviously not convinced, Spock pulled away from the kiss and Jim willed himself not to pout. "Nevertheless, you should permit a scan in the Sickbay for—"

Jim laughed, pulling Spock down with him as he lay back in bed, rolling them to their sides so they lay face to face, hands curled in between them. "Spock, I am telling you, as the person in this body, that I am _fine._ " 

"You said similar words when suffering from multiple lacerations during our mission to Ajilon Prime."

"Spock, I need one kind of treatment." Jim said, grinning as Spock perked up in obvious interest. "I need you to sleep with me, right now, in this bed, because I am exhausted. You and Bones can freak out together in the morning, yeah?"

Spock blinked, as if conflicted over his concern and the logic in Jim's statement, before finally relenting. 

"Rest would be... beneficial, in this situation. "

"Yep." Jim replied cheerily, settling in and drawing Spock in closer. "Goodnight, Spock."

"Goodnight, Jim."

"Love you," he whispered. Spock moved an arm to curl around his waist.

He could feel the answer through the bond. "And I, you." 

 

It was difficult to fall asleep, a rather interesting development since Spock usually found it extremely easy to do so, though the recent events were most certainly the cause of his current insomnia. His mind drifted in more of a meditative trance than anything else (though thankfully Vulcans did not require as much sleep as humans), until finally relaxing into rest in the early hours of the morning.

He was awakened not long after by the automatic light systems in his quarters, slowly brightening as it neared early morning. For a moment Spock simply lay there, reveling in the foreign feeling of complete contentedness, feeling the steady pulse of his bond with Jim rest in his chest, the other man so close that he could hear his steady heartbeat, feel his slow breathing. It was so similar to that first morning he’d seen Jim sleep, after the bar, and yet so different. Alone in his wakefulness, he allowed himself a smile, his need to stay composed suspended, for now. There was a different air about Jim now, something as relaxed and comfortable as he was, and the tenderness Spock felt came with such intensity that his heart squeezed painfully in his chest. 

He always felt too much. He had known that since childhood―how could he endure, feeling the depth of Vulcan emotion with only the controls of a human?

Spock let the happiness in his chest expand one more time, and knew that it was illogical to be afraid, since he already knew what he would find, and yet found it difficult to force his eyes away from Jim’s face nonetheless, trailing down the rest of his body. They were there, of course―dark blue and black along pale skin, the bruises most concentrated along Jim’s waist and arms, though there were prominent circles around his wrists as well, a mark unsettlingly close to the base of Jim’s neck, and Spock’s chest felt so heavy it was suddenly inexplicably, _illogically_ , hard to breathe.

He moved his right arm from where it had been resting against Jim’s waist and gently fit his hand along the bruises, noting with mild nausea that they fit perfectly with his fingers, a map along his body to show where and how Spock had harmed him. He combed through his memories of last night and found them to be far too objective; it had seemed as if Jim had been enjoying himself, but had he? Had Spock misread his body language, pain for lust, desperation for want? His memory, though eidetic, was clouded over with his own emotions, an unreliable source to determine the severity of his actions.

Spock gently touched another bruise along the side of his torso, particularly dark contusion, and then retracted his hand in mild horror as Jim groaned softly, face still curved into Spock’s neck, breathing and heart rate accelerating as woke. 

His expression was surprisingly amiable upon waking, giving Spock a wide smile he was wholly undeserving of, eyes still an impossible shade of blue (not that his statement was logical, at all, because it was obviously _possible_ , since he was staring at it at that exact moment).

“Hey, Spock.” he murmured, turning to press a kiss into Spock’s neck, the action causing him to shiver involuntarily. He could feel Jim’s smile against his own skin and wanted it to last forever, wanted him to never look down and see the evidence of Spock’s crimes. Was he now to the point of wishing desperately for impossible things?

“Good morning, Jim.” He let the warmth Jim elicited curve his lips into a smile, knowing the gesture would please him, attempting to block his sadness, revel in this moment before it ended. “I trust you slept soundly?”

Jim’s laugh sounded as wonderful as if always did, and it was in moments like these were Spock wondered how anyone could possibly ever dislike this man. 

“Someone’s confident in their skills. Were you a good lay, are you asking?” Spock blushed, allowing him to answer the question for him. “Yes, to both.”

“I am glad,” Spock replied without thinking, before hurriedly adding, “That you slept well.”

Jim winked at him as he sat up, stretching with a wide yawn followed shortly by a pained wince. Spock felt what little of his good mood that had resurfaced sink once again, as Jim looked down and surveyed the bruising, then looked at Spock’s comparatively markless body. “How is that fair?” Jim complained, his jovial tone making Spock’s eyebrows draw together. “I guess your blood doesn’t hemorrhage as easily, huh?” 

“That is correct.” Spock said, in his surprise. He took an unsteady breath. “Jim, are you not… upset?”

“ _Upset?_ ” Jim eyed him incredulously, moving close until their faces were mere inches apart. “Spock, that was… I mean, you already know, we’re connected right? So why would you think I’m upset?” 

Indeed, through their bond he could not detect the slightest hint of emotional discomfort, though he knew if he delved deeper he could feel the physical. Instead Jim seemed to be trying to drown him in positive emotions, pushing forth his happiness and satisfaction as easily as he offered his smiles. 

Spock frowned even as his heart relaxed slightly. “You have extensive bruising.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “They’ll be gone in two weeks, one if Bones gets to me.” He gave Spock a short, sweet kiss before rising fully out of bed. “Spock, seriously. It’s only normal that this happens. Vulcans are what, three times stronger than humans? You could have easily broken my arm if you’d lost control. I’m sure the bonding process is rougher than usual anyways.” 

“That may be so, however―”

“Nope,” Jim cut in, heading to the bathroom before stopping to turn around. “So I’m going to take a shower. Care to join me? Actually―” He moved back to the bed and nearly dragged Spock to the restroom. “―you’re going to join me, because you’ll just sit here and wallow otherwise. Don’t give me that look. Get.”


End file.
